Nick's fingers caressed his case's handle, eyes half closed as he listened. The sound seemed to vibrate through his body, a distinct chill rushing through his chest. It brought tears to his eyes, a floating sensation to his brain he'd never known. It was beautiful, and it had distracted him perhaps more than it should have. The doors had been wide open as he passed, spilling precious air conditioning into the sun scathed sidewalk to air the lobby floor as it was waxed. That brilliant echo of sound and cool breeze from the dark lobby doors had ultimately urged him to walk in. He'd wandered in through the dry part of the foyer to the back of the symphony hall.

Just for a second.

The music suddenly stopped, the irate and blistering criticism of a conductor snapping his consciousness back to reality. They had only been rehearsing, but it sounded so perfect to him.

His pager went off, vibrating silently against his hip. Picking up his phone, he dialed carefully, speaking quietly to Catherine. "You said it wasn't an emergency. I'm a couple blocks away. I had to park and walk."

She continued to talk to him as he held the phone out from his ear with an annoyed expression. He blinked several times, taking a deep breath before turning back to the lobby. His foot paused before stepping onto dark tile that looked a bit too cloudy.

He was now waxed in. "Dammit, I'm such an idiot," he snapped under his breath. He was stuck until it dried. "I'll be there, I'm on my way," he finally said to Catherine.

"This is a closed rehearsal!" the conductor's voice was sharp, hearing Nick's quiet phone conversation.

Nick blinked from the back of the hall, casting a glance over his shoulder as he flipped his cell closed.

"I'm… sorry, I just heard… the doors were open," he stammered, feeling his face flush as a hundred pairs of eyes focused on him. "I'm stuck until the wax dries."

"Buy a ticket like everyone else," he snapped darkly in a deeply thick accent and turned back to his less than enthusiastic followers. "That's it for today," he finished. "Disappointing! Do better tomorrow!"

The room broke its stoic attention and became a soft murmur of complaints and after rehearsal plucking. Nick stood at the edge of the door for fifteen minutes, watching it impatiently. His eyes wandered back and forth from the stage to the lobby.

He was pissed at himself, this was penance for his curiosity. Maybe he'd wandered in to understand, remind him, to stay close, remember the lessons. He pushed the thoughts aside; he'd spent a year pushing the thoughts aside. Letting go was just too hard.

………………………………"you're a kid, a little boy with a gun"

The words struck the front of his brain sharply, without warning. He suddenly needed to get out, get away from the sound that had drawn him in. His chest was tight, teeth clenching; it felt like a panic attack. The growl at the back of his throat was audible as he peered out into the lobby again, touching the floor with his toe

Thank god it was dry.

He quickly crossed the entrance hall, sliding his sunglasses on before stepping into the blanching sun.

"He yells at everybody like that, you're lucky you don't have to come back tomorrow," the voice was light, a soft English accent on the edges.

The voice chilled his blood.

Nick's world swirled and came to a screeching halt, focusing to a pinpoint. A dead silence hung in the air, sounds from the street muted as his breath became hot in his ears. Nostrils flared above tightly pressed lips as he looked over his shoulder, foot paused before stepping out the door. The rush of cold air from the lobby through the doorway ruffled his cropped hair, the back of his neck prickling.

Disbelieving eyes looked over the top of sunglasses through the dim foyer.

A woman stood at the box office in the lobby, handing something to the secretary inside.

The lobby was dark, the deep colored and shiny mahogany walls picking up the new sheen from the floor. It reflected light from the sidewalk outside off her face, the soft illumination from within the box office making her face glow. She slung the black strap of a violin case over her shoulder, smiling at the secretary before tucking the tickets given to her in the side pocket of her case.

She was very pretty, features supple and graceful. Black hair was in a trendy, short razored cut at her cheeks. Dark brown eyes watched him through the shadowed lobby as the green linen dress she wore swung gracefully at her ankles. She was tall, yet petite, black-laced sandals on meticulously pedicured feet. Her face…

Her face.

His lips were moving but nothing came out, eyes focused on a silver chain glinting at her collarbone as she walked toward him. It disappeared beneath the v-neck of her dress, along with whatever was on the end of it.

She stopped next to him, sliding on her own sunglasses.

"I hate it when they wax the lobby, the smell sticks in my nose for days," she said as she stepped out past him onto the blanched sidewalk, strong fingers resting on the strap to her case.

He watched her with distant eyes, the tan skin, the high cheekbones; his eyes wandered over the violin on her shoulder. She was speaking to him again, but her voice was lost in his ears.

"Are you okay?"

He blinked finally, an easy smile spreading across his face. "Yah, hey I gotta go."

"Sure, nice meeting you…um," she fished.

"Nick," he said finally, still studying her face. "Nick Stokes."

"Nice to meet you Nick," she turned to cross the street.

He finally regained his senses with a stinging mental slap.

"I didn't catch your name," he asked after her as she moved past a stationary taxi.

"I didn't give it to you," she smiled slightly and raised her eyebrow at him. "You'll have to buy a ticket like everyone else." Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she turned and lost herself in the crowd and jammed traffic.

His lips parted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Brow lowered to almost a confused scowl as the pager at his side jumped to attention again.

"Crap," he hissed, springing to a fast walk.

He slowed momentarily, casting a long glance into the crowd across the street before he began moving again at a fast jog.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Damn," Catherine said under her breath, looking at her watch. She flipped her cell open, speed dialing a number.

Warrick squinted at her through his sunglasses, the collar of his white shirt ruffling at his neck as the wind picked up, blowing heat scorched air into his face. Fingers gripped tighter to his case, other hand touching his ID nonchalantly. The sun was starting to set but it was still unbelievably hot.

"Hey, I got paged, can you pick up Lindsey from ballet class," she half-smiled at him as she spoke to her sister on the phone, pushing a lock of hair from her face. "Okay, thanks. Hey after, just grab some dinner and give me a call. I should be out by then. Uh-huh… okay, thanks sis, I owe you one. Bye bye." She paged Nick again.

"Killers don't have schedules like we do," he commented, following her into the department store.

"At least none that I've met," she quirked, "maybe we should make the suggestion." Her face frowned slightly, looking across the racks of clothing. Nick was nowhere to be seen. "Where is he?" she said particularly to herself as she approached the dressing rooms, setting down her case and introducing herself to the security guard.

They started a once over, noting the strange position of the body. The older teenage girl was huddled in the corner of the dressing room, clutching her backpack protectively. Catherine stepped away to speak with several employees.

Warrick worked alone for almost fifteen minutes before Nick weaved amongst the racks of clothes, holding up the case to keep it from getting caught.

"Where've you been?" Warrick said under his breath as Nick set his case down next to him. He looked up at him for a moment.

"Sorry… there was an accident, traffic was completely jammed. I had to park and walk three blocks." Nick was already sliding on a pair of gloves.

"Hey man, you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Worse…" Nick shook his head, dimples flicking as he pursed his lips.

"Ex-girlfriend?" Warrick grinned, leaning over the body and taking a swab.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Nick smiled easily, but it was false, "What do we have?"

"Regina Dalton. Wallet in her pocket, shot at point blank range in the temple inside this dressing room. Nobody saw or heard anything. Found with stolen merchandise in her backpack, along with a lot of cash." He handed Nick her bag to start processing.

"Silencer?"

"Probably."

"That's high end stuff to pop a teenage girl. What about her, a shoplifter?"

"Or runaway. Definitely running from something," Warrick finished, pulling out a pair of car keys from her pocket. "I wonder if we can match these to a car outside. Looks like she was collecting everything she could to get the hell out of dodge. "

"She didn't make it," Catherine commented.

Warrick looked under the bench in the corner of the dressing room, gingerly picking up a camera.

"Whatcha got there?" Nick asked.

"An expensive piece," he commented. "Busted lens, just tossed under there like trash." He frowned as the backpiece flipped open, looking to Nick. "Memory card's gone, door's broken." He handed it to Catherine in the cramped dressing room.

"Someone was in a hurry to get this card out," she said.

Warrick leaned over the girl, reaching down to her hair, pulling out a bramble of some kind. He bagged it. "She's a mess, dirt under her fingernails, her shoes are dusty. I have a feeling whoever killed her got what they wanted in that camera. Cash is still here, car keys. Whoever shot her knew what he was after, then killed her to cover their tracks."

"Definitely running from something," Nick surmised, looking at him.

"Aren't we all…" Warrick commented absently. He looked up as Catherine's phone sprung to life.

She answered it.

"What do you mean she wasn't there?" Catherine's voice pierced their thoughtfulness; calm forced on her features. She listened intently to her hysterical sister on the other end of the cell phone. "Where else would she be?"

Her questions were filled with nonchalant hope, almost a teasing tone. Lips began to purse, then press into a thin line as she listened, fierce panic as she listened to her sister.

She'd heard only two words:

…lindsey…

…missing…

"I have to go," her voice was barely there, her phone sliding slowly from her ear. Facial features suddenly curled into a severe expression of protective rage. She'd already removed her gloves, handing them off. Her face was ruthless as she stalked toward the door, car keys already out and cell phone dialed in the other.

"Catherine?" Warrick asked, twirling a brush.

"She looked like she was about to kill someone," Nick paused.

"Dammit," Warrick got up, moving after her. "Her sister was supposed to pick up Lindsey, sounds like someone else got there first…"